Four Faces
by esking
Summary: The last scene of Dark Knight, with a distinct difference. T for brief language./NOT A CONTINUATION. Harvey Dent's press con, from the POV of a reporter who's eyes weren't fixed on the DA, and his subsequent investigation into Bruce Wayne
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks for reading. This is a short one shot I got when I first watched TDK, but I've been tweaking it every few weeks or so for years. I don't know why I chose now to post it. I realize it's very similar to KrisEleven's "The Only One in a Mask", so don't hate for copying, I wrote this before I read that, and got permission to post this. And incidentally, TOOIAM is great, so everyone should read it. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight. Or maybe I do. How do _you_ know? I could be Christopher Nolan, and no one would ever know. I could legally change my name and everything. No, that could raise some complications. Fine you got me, I'm not Christopher Nolan…I'm Gary Oldman! And while you contemplate that, here's the story.**

Harvey and Batman both lay unmoving on the ground, forty feet below. Time was behaving very oddly. The moment as Gordon gazed down at them stretched into infinity, and yet he recalled no passage of time descending the skeletal stairs to reach the ground. Now he realized he was truly alone. Batman, his greatest ally, was gone. Only now did the irony hit him that the man he trusted most in the city was one whom Gordon had never seen face to face, had never heard string together more than ten words at once. Batman and Two-Face. Three faces Gordon would never see again.

As though from a great distance, he heard Jimmy yell anxiously, "Is he okay, Dad?"

But Gordon remained silent. All was lost now. Harvey would be mourned and honored. Batman would rescind into fold memory, bittersweet and uncertain. No one would remember a face beyond the black, bat-eared mask. What was the harm? Gordon knelt down, and reached towards the man's face. His hand twitched involuntarily. He couldn't just unmask the Caped Crusader, just like that. It wasn't his place, his right. But, he asked himself, who would remember him then? How could the city leave its greatest hero nameless, faceless? Gordon laughed at the absurd idea that in 50 years or 100, Batman's name would be in history textbooks, next to a paragraph about Commissioner Loeb's assassination, and a mug shot of the Joker.

"Oh, what the hell," he whispered. He grasped the mask firmly in his hand. It was rubbery to the touch, but brittle. He pulled.

But there must have been some kind of mistake. Gordon felt a numbness spread through his body as he recognized the face. It couldn't be…_him_. Not Wayne. Fucking Wayne. He was a spoiled billionaire, uncaring about anything save his next giant splurge, or the model du jour. In Gordon's memory, the blank face became animated once more. Wayne sat in the open door of his totaled Lamborghini, suspiciously calm about the destruction of his $300,000 car. He looked up when Gordon said in a determinedly even voice, "It's Mr. Wayne, isn't it?" A curt nod. "That was a very brave thing you just did."

"Trying to catch the light?" Wayne had said, and Gordon had accepted that. Who would suspect Bruce Wayne of a thought process anymore noble than cutting the line and running a red light? He'd assumed the car was protecting the van. He'd assumed the driver was a self-centered douche. And of course that was how Batman had stayed anonymous for so long, playing off the public opinion. Everyone thought about Bruce Wayne, read about his grandiose possessions, his indulgences. He'd romanticized the entire Russian ballet in the Caribbean. At the exact same time that Batman went to Hong Kong to get Lao. How had Gordon not seen it before?

The secret would get out now, he supposed, when Bruce Wayne vanished the same day Batman was found dead. A good light cast too late on the city's resident bastard.

"Dad?" Jimmy yelled again.

Gordon ignored him a second time, because Wayne's jaw clenched, and the his eyes flickered open to see Gordon stared traitorously down at his unconcealed face. Wayne's hand fluttered involuntarily up to his cheek, and Gordon saw momentary fear cloud his eyes. He realized the mask was still clenched in his hand. He held it out apologetically and stood back as Wayne got painstakingly to his feet.

Wayne nodded his thanks, breathing hard, and pulled the mask over his face.

"Batman escaped before I could call in my reinforcements," Gordon said quietly. "Who knows where he went."

Again, Batman nodded. Gordon's mind lit fleetingly on a future image of the fundraiser to which he'd been invited, for some faceless politician. He was sanctioned by Wayne industries, and the party was to be at Mr. Wayne's house. Gordon imagined himself now, shaking hands politely with the host, exchanging vague polite small talk, politely allowing the polite, white haired old butler to take his coat, admiring the ostentatiously expensive décor. Only now, knowing that it was all a façade, that this house, these riches, were the real mask. The man himself in all his splendor stood now before Gordon, bleeding, panting, knowing exactly what Gordon was thinking.

Mr. Wayne was so much easier to resent for all his money, the ease and humor with which he lived his life. He was detached, the least citizenly of Gotham's citizens.

Batman was beloved, or feared. Perhaps he should merely say familiar. When you saw Batman leaping over a rooftop, you felt that undeniable fleeting surge of hope, praying the he could make the city a better place as he struggled against mobsters and business men alike. As Batman fought Bruce Wayne. And Gordon knew that the man who was standing was much more a two face than the man who lay at his feet. Four faces. The four faces of Gotham.

**Thanks for reading! All reviews appersheated.**


	2. We're Not all Blind

**We're Not all Blind**

**This isn't actually a second chapter, it's just another scene that I thought was kind of in the same vein as Four Faces, so I thought I'd just put them together. In case you don't figure it out, it's happening at the very end of the press conference where Harvey Dent admits to being Batman. Which is a lie. 'Cause _I _am Batman. I carry things on my belt. 'Cause I'm Batman. So there.**

**Disclaimer: Funnily enough, I'm not Gary Oldman any more. I'm just Gary the Old Man. Except my name isn't Gary. And I'm not an old man. **

**P.S: In order to appease the great and jerkish-ahem-I mean powerful Mr. You-Know-You-Who-You-Are, there may be one more chapter that is basically a lot of nonsense meant mostly for him, but also may entertain you, so feel free to read it. Here's the story.**

"So be it," said the District Attorney with a defeated sigh. He turned and nodded to the police officers standing nearest the microphone-covered podium. "Take the Batman into the custody."

Louis Crest saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Two feet away, Bruce Wayne had taken a step away from the cream marble wall against which he'd been leaning. Why was he leaving just as the identity of the city's most wanted mystery man was revealed? Crest himself had been particularly fascinated by the vigilante. He'd grown up reading the Superman comics, and had always found it impossible to believe that Lois Lane didn't recognize Clark Kent without his glasses, and respected the Batman for the sheer reason that he actually kept his identity secret. It also galled him. Crest had climbed the ladder of success quickly and brutally, his trump card being his ruthless investigative abilities. He'd always secretly dreamed of investigating the Batman, of following him one night and seeing him take off his mask, being the soul witness to the face that hid beneath, having that power over Caped Crusader.

Crest couldn't understand why Wayne was leaving when the city's greatest secret was about to be told. And then he realized that Wayne wasn't moving towards the door. He was moving towards the _podium_. To turn himself him in.

Crest's gasp of realization was drowned out by the sudden cacophony of alarmed shouts. His pen was still held suspended over his notepad, eyes fixed on Wayne's look of masterfully veiled surprise and confusion, and realized that he had not heard Dents last words, but saw that two officers were now locking his wrists in handcuffs. He looked back at Wayne, who had dropped his eyes to the floor and stepped back against the wall. There was no doubt in Crest's mind that Wayne was the batman. Why was he just standing there? How could he let Dent take the blame? Was the man who had risked his life dozens if not hundreds of times for the good of the city really that much of a selfish coward?

Crest followed Wayne after the conference, leaving his photographer Stacy alone by their van without so much as a word of explanation. This story would need tact. He couldn't frighten Wayne with overzealous, prying questions. He had to be positive, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Wayne was walking briskly towards a sleek grey Lamborghini. Crest felt a stab of petty jealousy and quashed it, quickening his pace. Wayne was almost at his car.

Desperately, Crest cried out, "Mr. Wayne!" and sprinted forward. To his disbelieving relief, Wayne stopped and turned around, with a look Crest generally associated with a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He was tense and seemed preoccupied, for it took his eyes several moments to focus on Crest, who reached him panting slightly.

"Mr. Wayne, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Wayne looked impatiently at his watch, but his expression of affected boredom did not quite conceal still present shock and (was Crest imagining it?) panic. "I'm very busy," he said.

"I'll be quick," Crest promised. "Do you believe that Harvey Dent is the Batman?"

Wayne's jaw tightened. Crest knew he'd hit a nerve. "I wouldn't know anything about that."

"He just confessed on live TV."

"Then I guess it must be him." Wayne opened his car door. "Good bye."

"Mr. Wayne!" Crest clamped his mouth shut as he realized he'd almost screamed. But it got Wayne's attention. He stopped, one hand resting on the edge of the Lambo's window. "I understand subtlety."

"You're a reporter," said Wayne, and his meaning was clear.

"You were going to turn yourself in," Crest lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, so that it was all but lost in the whoosh of traffic. "You were going to give yourself up, just now, because Harvey Dent isn't Batman. _You_ are."

Crest felt his imminent victory build like a warm bubble inside his chest. The weight of his voice recorder hefted comfortingly in his pocket. He was _so close_.

But instead of further panicking, Wayne flashed him a genuine, winning smile and said, "I'm sorry I wasn't of further use, sir. Have a nice day." He pulled the car door closed (when had he sat down?) and the Lamborghini turned away from the curb and shot away.

**I realize it wasn't all that exciting. I may end up continuing with Crest. He's growing on me. Have a nice day. All reviews appersheated.**

**-esking**


	3. We're Not all Blind ch 2

**Greetings dear chickadees. Je vous presente the second installment of the Crest Chronicles, a collection chronicling the quest of reporter Louis Crest to prove the identity of the Batman. (Sadly, he will never succeed. You see, _I_ am the Batman, and I control his every action, so he's screwed unless I want him to figure it out.) Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any thingies related to it thereof. Boohoo for me.**

**P.S. I am coming to realize that most of my chapters are depressingly short, which is usually because I try to leave something on which to continue, and because I'm scribbling them down during class and it always feels like I'm writing way more than I am because it takes longer. So apologies if these feel insubstantial. **

After being rebuffed politely (and then not so politely) from Wayne Tower by a gum-chewing security guard and an obnoxious receptionist, Crest decided to change his tactics, and target Batman instead of Bruce Wayne.

The handy thing about being a reporter was meeting people from all walks of life. Crest had long since found the universal key to getting such diverse individuals to talk to him: flattery. If you made someone believe you were actually interested, that you wanted to understand them , and to help others understand, they usually started blabbing faster than you could turn on your voice recorder. Unfortunately, when Crest asked about the Batman, none of the babbling was very useful.

"Uh…he's a dude who dresses up like a bat."

"I'm pretty sure it's my brother-in-law."

"An arrogant jerk who thinks he's above the law."

"Those are some damn fine abs."

"I kissed him upside down once."

"I just like the car."

"Escaped mental patient."

"He kind of looks like the brother from 'The Fighter.'"

"I just need to _find_ him," Crest moaned one evening to his boyfriend Philip.

"Why don't you just flick on the floodlight at the MCU?" Philip asked, biting into a powdered doughnut. He was a GCPD patrolman who, in light of the recent 'escalation in major crimes', had been transferred to the Major Crimes unit.

Crest turned to star at him, amazed. "Come again?"

Philip shrugged. "The lieutenant has a giant spotlight on the roof of the MCU building. That's where the Bat signal comes from. It's been up there for months."

"I've seen the shape..." Crest trailed off. "It's just on top of the station?"

Philip nodded. "Yup."

**oOo**

The light was already on when Crest reached the top of the police station, having 'borrowed' Philip's uniform and walked briskly through the station to the elevator, avoiding eye contact. By the light, he could see a single man standing beside it. His face was round, but drawn with the worry and fear that wrinkled most faces these days. He looked around when Crest closed the door behind him.

"No point," he said dejectedly. "He hasn't come since…" he let the sentence hang, but Crest assumed he was talking about Lieutenant Gordon's death. Philip had told him that morale in the unit had reached an all-time low since Commissioner Loeb's funeral.

He nodded. "I just wanted to talk to him."

The man laughed bitterly. "You don't just _talk_ to Batman. The only person he'd ever come here for anyways was Gordon." He looked up at the huge white symbol on the clouds. "We're on our own now."

Silence fell. Neither man moved. Crest felt horribly intrusive. He was suddenly terrified that even if the Batman _did_ come, he'd recognize Crest instantly as an imposter and destroy the whole story with one fell swoop. He recalled again his vow to be tactful and discreet.

At that moment, the roof door banged open. A patrolman stuck his head through, panting. "What the hell are you doing! We need you downstairs ASAP!"

"What's going on?"

"We need drivers for the convoy?"

"What convoy?" Crest asked before he could stop himself.

"Harvey Dent's convoy, moron. We're transferring him to central holding and Carlson wants as many guys on hand as we can. Come on!" he shouted again and, not knowing what else to do, Crest followed him downstairs.

**oOo**

Before he knew what was happening, Crest found himself in the passenger seat of a squad car, trailing behind an armored van, driving along a deserted street.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

**Thanks for reading. Review appersheated.**

**-esking**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to all my reviewers! You induce much smilationifying. I like to make up words. Hey, funniness: Hamlet Dr. Seuss style- I will not stab him in the dark, I will not stab him in the park, I will not stab him in the night, I will not stab him in a fight, I will not stab my uncle/dad no not though he be very bad. Got that off a friend's t-shirt. Pretty great, I thought. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Batman. Don't have to. I _am_ Batman. I carry things on my belt. Because I'm Batman. **

Crest craned his neck nervously, trying to see around the bulky van in front of them. His heart was pounding. He was so tempted to just tell the driver that he wasn't a cop, that this was all a big mistake, but he knew that impersonating a police officer was a felony, and six months of jail time would get him nowhere with his investigation. So he kept silent, praying that they wouldn't get, well, killed.

The radio crackled, and an exasperated voice said, "All units divert down to Lower Fifth. Repeat divert down."

"_Lower_ fifth," said the driver. "We'll be like turkeys on Thanksgiving down there."

Crest's stomach flipped over as the van turned left and the interior of the car was suddenly illuminated by a hostile orange glow. A semi was lying on its side across all three lanes, engulfed in flames.

"Oh my God," he whispered.

"Say your prayers, man," said the driver. "This Joker guy doesn't mess around. We're gonna see blood tonight."

On that grim prediction, they continued down the ramp onto Lower Fifth.

A minute or so later, Crest saw another semi in the rearview mirror, bearing down on them at a speed far exceeding the limit. "Hey-" was all he'd managed before it bashed into the side of the cruiser, send it skidding sideways into the concrete traffic barrier. Crest raised his hands at the last second, and felt them smash against something hard. A dark curtain descended over his eyes.

"Oh no!" the driver was saying. "He did _not!_ This is a brand new goddamn car!"

Crest felt the engine revving, and the squad car backed off of the barrier with a jolt and turned onto the road again.

"Are you crazy!" shouted Crest. "We're gonna die!"

"Hell yeah, and I'm taking them with me." He floored the accelerator. Crest prayed to a God he'd denounced when he was fifteen.

The dull yellow lighting of the tunnel was suddenly illuminated by a flare of fiery orange, and bits of shrapnel cracked the windshield. Crest recoiled instinctively, covering his face with his hands. The car jerked to the left, dodging the flaming wreck of another squad car.

"Jesus H. Christ!" yelled Crest. "Get us outta here!"

"Protect and serve!" the driver shot back. "We're still part of this damn convoy."

Something black and bulky zoomed past them a lane over.

"Thank God!" said Crest, the investigation not even crossing his mind. He was in full force distressed citizen mode now, and his only prayer was that the Batman would save them. The driver, it seemed, was not thinking along the same lines. The car accelerated up the ramp and out of the tunnel. A rhythmic whirring overhead heralded to police helicopters lowering down between the skyscrapers a few blocks ahead of them, searchlights fixed on the giant semi which had first hit them.

"Thank God!" Crest said again.

A second later, both helicopters spun out of control and crashed to the ground, erupting into GIANT BURNING BALLS OF FIERY FLAME!

Crest swore at the top of his lungs. And still the driver kept going.

"Are you kidding me!" yelled Crest.

"Protect and serve!" the driver repeated.

"We're gonna die!"

"Then we'll die doing out duty."

"Not mine," Crest muttered. His voice was lost in the deafening creak of metal as the semi flipped over on its face before crashing upside down forty feet in front of them. The driver slammed on the brakes and swerved to the left. The squad car tipped and rolled. Glass shattered, metal bent. Crest squeezed his eyes shut and threw his arms up to protect his face. The world twisted around him, shaking him like martini. He must have screamed, because when he opened his eyes, his throat was burning. The crushed metal of the roof of the car dug into his scalp, and his shirt sleeve was caught in the pinched door frame. He turned his head, displacing shards of glass as he did so, to look at the driver. His eyes were open and blank, his mouth slack, blood running up the side of his face. It was only then that Crest realized he was upside down. Gingerly, he unbuckled his seatbelt and let his body collapse onto the roof of the car. Glass grated against his skin, but he disregarded it, and pulled himself out the windshield.

On the open concrete, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the clouded sky. His body was completely drained. He didn't think he'd have been able to move his limbs even if he wanted to.

"Hit me! HIT ME!" bellowed a voice from somewhere to his left. There was a horrible, animal bellow, and then another crash. Crest lifted his head a millimeter from the ground, raising his eyes to look down the street, but saw nothing except nondescript dark shapes clustered around something on the ground. He forced himself over onto his stomach, trying to get a better look. The change of position allowed him to register one fact: the Batman was the thing on the ground. And one masked clown was reaching down to take off his mask.

Running on less than fumes, Crest raised himself to his feet and scrambled forward in the dark, inky pool hugging the sides of the nearest skyscraper. A flash illuminated the group surrounding the Batman, and the clown who'd tried to pull off the mask reeled backwards, smoking slightly. He wouldn't be unmasking the Batman that way. Crest heard high-pitched, maniacal laughter, and saw a man in a purple coat-the Joker-kneel down beside the Batman, glinting straight blade in hand. But behind him, Crest could see another man bearing down on him, a submachine gun clutched in his hands. He pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of the Joker's neck. Crest edged closer, and the man's face caught the light. It was Lieutenant Gordon.

Crest kept moving, watching the Lieutenant locking handcuffs around the Joker's wrists and then opening the door of the armored van. Unseen by any of the cops or reporters, Batman got painstakingly to his feet and started limping away. Crest followed.

**Yeah, so this was intended to go longer, but I jammed my thumb today while sledding (because I have that much talent. Be jealous) and typing is rather painful, so I'm tying this one up for now until it heals a little more. But fear not my chickadees! I, like Buffy the vampire slayer, heal fast. The wait will not be prolonged. Unless we have to amputate...**

**Thanks for reading. All reviews appersheated.**

**-esking **


	5. Chapter 5

**Long chapter warning. At least long for me. **

**My thumb is feeling much better, in case anyone's wondering. Again, thanks for reading. My friend and I discovered something today: if she's Ironman and I'm Batman, together we would be IronBat or ManMan. **

**Quote of the day: "I just wish I were a British man. *sigh*". This, too, was a she.**

**Disclaimer: Sometimes I tell myself that I own The Dark Knight. Then _I_ (as opposed to I) tell myself that I don't. And much sadness is induced.**

Crest jogged to the end of the alley into which he'd seen Batman disappear. At first glance, he thought it was empty, that Batman had already gone, but then movement to the left caught his eye. Batman was still limping steadily down the alley, leaning on the grimy brick wall for support.

"Wait!" called Crest, quickening his pace.

Batman ignored him, and started limping faster.

'"Batman!" No response.

Crest cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. "Mr. Wayne!"

There was no visible change in the Batman's demeanor. He didn't stop and turn dramatically, he didn't start running. To Crest's acute dismay, he did nothing incriminating at all, just kept limping away.

"Wait!" Crest pleaded again, running now. Some detached part of his brain registered that this was almost exactly what had happened after the press conference when he'd tried to talk to Bruce Wayne, and an even more detached part found some encouragement in this realization.

Batman didn't wait, but Crest caught up with him a moment later. "Mr. Wayne, I told you. I understand discretion." He stared at Batman's mouth and chine, trying to replace the black, intimidating mask with Bruce Wayne's hooded eyes an dark brows. It was hard when the mouth was turned down and snarling.

"Stay away from me!" he growled, with such ferocity that Crest actually took a step back.

"I'll find proof, Mr. Wayne!" Crest promised as Batman pushed past him. "It's up to you whether you're on my good side or bad when I do." Feeling rather pleased with his threat, Crest spun on his heel and started back towards the lights and sirens on the main street.

As he approached the mob of cops and reporters, his cell phone rang. "Hello?"

"Louie, did you hear? They caught the Joker!" said Philip hysterically.

"I know, I know," said Crest, suddenly feeling incredibly weary. "I'm here."

"Oh my God! Are you okay!" cried Philip, making Crest instantly regret his words. Philip had a terrible habit of blowing even the smallest problems into the most enormous of issues, and an occurrence such as this, with cops dead and police cars reduced to cinders, was bound to warrant a _long _night of needless, incessant coddling.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm coming home now," Crest sighed.

"Okay. I'll make you some tea."

"Thanks."

"I love you." Crest caught the slight crack in his boyfriend's voice, the lack of conviction in the familiar refrain. It tore at his heart, and made him feel guilty for putting him through all of this, just for his story.

"Okay. Bye." Crest closed the phone, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. Maybe this whole mishap had come at an opportune time. He and Philip had been on rocky ground for awhile now. Maybe what they needed was something which they could work through together, rebuild old foundations.

**oOo**

Crest returned to his and Philip's apartment half an hour later, still buoyed considerably by his satisfaction about the Batman investigation. However when he entered the main room still wearing Philip's uniform, to see his boyfriend sitting on the couch with his arms crossed and a glare fixed to his tan face, his cheerful feeling shrank to the size of a raisin and skulked away. He smiled sheepishly.

"You're wearing my uniform," said Philip, tapping his foot.

"I was going to tell you," Crest apologized. "I swear. I needed it for the…investigation."

"You're a reporter, Louis, not a cop, and you could've gotten killed." Philip stood up and walked over to Crest. He knew he was in trouble when Philip used his full name. "It doesn't even look good on you. Too loose in the shoulders."

"I'm sorry," sighed Crest. "I know I screwed up."

Philip held his gaze for a moment, and then rolled his eyes and smiled. "I'm terrible at staying mad at you," he said, and hugged Crest tightly. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Crest hugged him back, relieved, and then they went together into the kitchen, where Philip poured them each a glass of wine.

"So, which investigation was this, exactly."

Crest took a swig. The wine was cheap, but surprisingly good. His buoyant, satisfied feeling was returning. He grinned, knowing he must look cocky, but he didn't care. "I know who the Batman is."

Philip's eyes widened. "_Who!_"

Crest paused dramatically, then leaned forward and whispered, "_Bruce Wayne_."

This earned him a hysterical snort of laughter from Philip. "Bruce Wayne!" he roared. "I thought you were serious."

"I am!" Crest insisted. "I _know _it's him. I just need proof."

Philip's smile faded. "You're serious. Bruce Wayne. Billionaire playboy douche bag Bruce Wayne."

"The one and only."

"Louie, you can't expose him!" Philip's tone was intense now, almost fearful. "He'd bury you! You do realize you're going up against the most powerful man in Gotham _and _the guy who single handedly beats the shit out of the big-ass scary guys who'd snap you like a twig!"

Crest shook his head confidently. "He can't touch me. He knows I know."

"Louie, listen to yourself! This is _Bruce Wayne!_ He's not gonna let you destroy him like this. No one will believe you anyways! This is a no fucking win situation!"

"I can do it!" said Crest. "I'm not stupid. I know what I'm doing."

"_No, you don't!_" Philip was almost in tears. "You're playing with dynamite! _Lit _dynamite. Please, Louie, just leave it lie. No good will come of this. The city's happy not knowing who he is."

"But _I'm _not."

"You know.""

"I don't have proof."

"For God's sake, do you need any? _Please_ drop it."

"I can't!"

"Then God help you." Philip stood up from the table and stalked away into the bedroom.

**oOo**

Bruce had always speculated that Alfred must have been trained as an assassin, because there were times when even Bruce with his highly trained hearing did not notice his presence until he addressed him.

"I see Lieutenant Gordon has returned from the dead."

"It was a good plan," said Bruce without looking up from the bandage he was wrapping around his forearm. "He's got the Joker locked up and we can now turn to other issues."

"What other issues, sir?"

"The reporter." Bruce pressed a few keys on the nearest keyboard and one screen filled with a dozen articles, all written by one person: Louis Crest. "He's following me."

"Following you or following Batman?"

A beat. "Both."

"Does he know?"

"He suspects," said Bruce dismissively. "He has no proof."

"Then why are you worried?"

"I'm not. But I'd like to know if and when he does find proof."

"Are you proposing I get a day job, sir?"

"I thought you'd want something to do to fill those long lonely hours alone at the penthouse." Bruce raised his eyebrows at his butler.

Alfred smiled. "I might be glad for that, Mr. Wayne."

**oOo**

Crest was awoken the next morning by the front door slamming shut as Philip left for work. He sighed, knowing he had not been forgiven, rolled over, and fell back asleep.

Several hours later, he was woken again by a loud, insistent rapping on the door. He pressed the pillow over his ears, but the knocking came again, even louder. With a groan, he slid his sore body out of bed and walked bare foot through the small TV room to the door and opened it a crack, leaving the chain in place.

"Yeah?" he croaked.

"Good afternoon, sir," said a chipper voice with a British accent. Crest blinked sleep from his eyes and peered again at the man who stood in the hallway. He was quite old, judging by the pervasive wrinkles on his face, but his dark blue eyes sparkled with vitality and intelligence. His hair was thick and well-groomed, albeit pure, fluffy white, and he had a neat, white mustache to match. He stood a little shorter than Crest, but impressively straight for his apparent age, although his figure was not at all complimented by the cheap, navy blue coveralls he was wearing.

_What do you want, _was the first phrase which ran through Crest's mind, but even in this half-awake state, some part of him spoke in his mother's voice and hissed, _impolite._

So, instead, he said, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm here to fix your cable, sir," said the man, still in his bright cheerful voice, far to lively for-Crest checked his watch-_ two-thirty?_

"My cable's just fine."

The man held up a slip of paper, bearing his address, accompanied by Philip's name. "We received a call this morning from Philip Gunn requesting we check your cable box."

Crest squinted at the paper, recognizing Philip's cell number. Why hadn't he told him? _Because he'd not speaking to me, _his mind supplied dully. He yawned.

"Alright, come on in." Crest pointed unnecessarily at the small TV set against the near wall. "There's the thing. Um…" he stood there helplessly, staring at the repairman.

After a moment, the man said, "I'll get to work then, shall I?"

"Yeah." Crest remained where he was, watching the repairman open his tool box and set to work, whistling softly. After another moment, Crest plodded into his bedroom to get dressed, having just realized that he was wearing nothing but boxers.

**oOo**

When Alfred returned to the workshop near the docks, Bruce was seated before one of the many screens, a pair of head phones over his ears, watching a video feed. He seemed to hear Alfred, however, because he turned around to see the old man peeling a fake mustache off his lip and fold up a pair of dark blue coveralls.

"I trust the bug is functioning properly, sir?" he asked.

Bruce nodded.

"Good," Alfred tossed the coveralls and mustache into the fireplace set into the wall. "I hate those bloody things."

**All reviews appersheated.**

**Hey, here's a fun trick to try on your friends. I got Caspian and Mr. You-Know-Who-You-Are both in one day. You bet them that you can get them to say the word "no" in x amount of minute, for example, 10. You start by asking them yes or no questions, which they'll easily deflect. (My favorite is, "Do you love me?"). Then you say "whatever" and appear to dismiss the subject, and begin asking them a series of either/or questions. I usually start with, "You're robbing a bank. Do you rob Key Bank or National?" then "The police come. Do shoot your way out or sneak away?" etc. etc. Lead them on a wild loop asking random questions going along with the story of the bank robbery for four minutes or so, and then ask, seemingly completely off topic, "Wait, have you heard this joke before?" and nine times out of ten, they'll automatically say, "No," and you've got them. Actually, with Cas, she caught me when I asked that, so I went back to asking, "Do you love me?" and she laughed sarcastically. "No, seriously, do you love me." "Haha." "I'm serious." And do you know what she said? "No you're not." HA! I got her! With Mr. YKWYA I didn't even get to the story. The first question I asked was "Do you love me?" and he said, "Not in a sexual way, no." And I laughed muchly. Course, Caspian spent the rest of the day telling me how much she hated me, but hey, to make an omelet you gotta break some eggs. I hope you have enjoyed Trickery 101 with esking. Use it wisely. Good night and good luck.**


	6. Chapter 6

**The idea for this chapter comes entirely from my dear reviewer, **ninjaxsketcheartx**, who is awesome, so hearts. I will warn you now that it monkeys with the TDK timeline just a tad, so for the sake of this story, we're going to say that the Joker's interrogation took place the day after his arrest, instead of the night of. As always, thanks for reading**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Dark Knight or any other peeps or things incorporated in DC comics. At least as far as I know. The owner could have died and willed everything to me. Although, I _am_ Batman. I carry things on my belt. 'Cause I'm Batman. (Check out How It Should Have Ended: Superman, HISHE: The Dark Knight, HISHE: Spider-Man 3).**

Bruce had Alfred watch the reporter for the rest of the day while he partook in several hours of direly needed sleep. The sun set was coloring the skyline a deep blood red when he awoke and returned to the temporary Batcave.

"What's he doing?" he asked, coming to stand behind Alfred.

"It seems your powers of dissuasion could use a little work, sire," said Alfred, indicating the center-most screen. On it, a short, narrow-shouldered man with straight blonde hair and a button nose sifted through dozens of newspapers and magazines, all, Bruce could see by the expensive, high resolution screen, pertaining to him.

Bruce frowned, noticing the vantage point of the camera. "I thought you only planted a bug on the TV."

"He was in the other room. I thought you'd appreciate another view, sir."

"I am. And you're right. I think he needs another chat."

Alfred nodded solemnly. "You can't have him tagging around while you're busy scourging the city."

"He could get hurt," said Bruce. "I think-" he broke off as a screen to the far right flickered to life, displaying the words: **Major Crimes Unit **** James Gordon Cell.**

Bruce tapped a few keys and audio came up: "-ing up his home phone, and his cell is disconnected."

Gordon's voice swore softly. "What does the Joker say?"

"Nothing, sir. Not a word. What do we do?"

A pause. "Just…hang on. I'm leaving now. Be there in ten."

By the time the line clicked, Bruce was already pulling on the Batman's armor, and striding toward the elevator.

"What about the reporter?" Alfred called as Batman's feet disappeared into the ceiling, but there was no reply. "Right," Alfred muttered. "How about indirect dissuasion." He sat down in the swivel chair and began typing.

**oOo**

Crest had spent the rest day digging through the Gotham Times archives, and accumulating an enormous pile of clippings and photographs concerning both Batman and Bruce Wayne. And one of the first things he's realized was that the Batman's first appearance happened the same week that Bruce Wayne returned from the dead. He remembered that week clearly, as it had been the same week that he had first met Philip. By the time Crest started heading home, the sky had darkened to a charcoal black shrouded in smog, the sidewalks lit only by the dim street lamps. His messenger bag was stuffed with the borrowed papers, and the strap scraped painfully against his neck. He quickened his pace, eager to get home and continue his work. As he rounded the corner of 53rd and 25th, his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out, and saw that he had a new text from a blocked number: **Major Crimes interrogation room ASAP. Wear the uniform -B**

Crest stared at the message, unable to believe his eyes. B. As in Batman. As in Bruce. Crest sprinted the last block home, yanked on the police uniform hanging in the closet, sprinted down into the garage, hopped onto the motorbike he hadn't used more than once since buying it, and raced to the MCU.

No one challenged him when he strode breathlessly into the viewing room at the back of the Major Crimes building. Their eyes were all fixed on the two way glass, watching the two men on the other side. One Crest recognized easily. Six feet tall (although the ears added another two inches), clad in black armor, masked and hulking, the Batman sat hunched in a tarnished metal chair, opposite a man Crest knew only by the mug shots in the newspapers. In person, the gruesome scars and the bright red face paint were even more alarming. He leaned forward intensely, smiling in a knowing way.

"…they'll _eat _each other." Now he shifted back in the chair, at ease. Crest felt his stomach clench an horrid anticipation. "I'm just ahead of the curve."

In a movement to quick to follow, Batman lunged forward, snatching the Joker up by the shirt and dragging him over the table. "Where's Dent?" growled, dangerously low, devoid of emotion.

"You have all these _rules _and you think they'll save you," said the Joker sympathetically, seemingly oblivious or uncaring of the fact that the guy holding him off the ground could smash in his skull without breaking a sweat.

The Batman slammed the Joker against the wall between the two viewing windows and Crest winced involuntarily. Several people looked nervously at Gordon, who stood to Crest's left, but he merely nodded and said, "He's in control."

"I have one rule," Batman snarled. His eyes were wide, a stark white against the black mask.

Still as lightly as though they were conversing over drinks, the Joker said, "Oh, well than that's the rule you'll have to break to know the truth."

"Which is?"

The Joker kept talking. Crest was staring so hard at Batman, he didn't even register what he was saying, until Batman flipped the smaller man over his shoulder onto the table so hard it shuddered. The Joker let out a wild hoot of laughter as carried a chair over to the door. Crest saw Gordon run out of the viewing room towards the door, but Batman had already wedged it shut with the chair. Gordon yanked at the door to no avail, and Batman had already stormed back over to the Joker.

Tauntingly, the Joker asked, "Does Harvey know about you and his _little bunny_?" Batman grabbed him by the hair and smashed his head into the window, sending spider web cracks through the glass. Crest took a step back. A small voice inside his head said, in Philip's voice, _This is you if you cross him._

He'd seen enough. The Joker's high-pitched voice grated on his ears. He heard his recite an address, but didn't hear the numbers. He pushed his way blindly through the station, desperate to get out, to burn every scrap of information he'd amassed about the Batman. He was a coward and he knew it, but no story was worth getting killed. Not for a stupid outlaw vigilante. All the way home, Crest dodged around cars and around his own mind. A fierce argument was raging between his curiosity and his self-preservation instinct. He _had _to know for certain, to have solid proof. But if he found solid proof, odds were he'd be sent to the emergency room with no intact bones in his body. But he _had _to know! _He'll bury you! _said Philip's voice.

"Goddammit," Crest whispered allowed. _**BOOM! **_He pulled the bike to a stop, gaping at the immense ball of fire which illuminated the entire block to his right. Flaming debris rained on the rooftops and sidewalk, and ash began to fall like rain. Crest sped onward. The explosion had come from almost exactly where his apartment building was.

Giddy relief flooded through him when he saw that 53rd Apartments was still intact, but that the foreclosed building on 52nd and 25th had been reduced to smoke obscured rubble. The entire block was filled with police cars and blaring sirens. Crest past them as unobtrusively as he could and didn't relax until the garage door closed behind him.

It was all too much. He'd been out of his mind to think he could handle this. These people were insane. All of them. There was no story here, only a dead end and a dead reporter. He'd be better off going back to covering restaurants and gang violence.

The mere sight of the grainy photo of Batman at the top of the stack on his kitchen table made Crest's stomach clench with fear. He swept all the papers into a bag and carried them downstairs into the trashy courtyard behind the apartment complex, taking a lighter from his pocket and holding it to the corner of a paper with a trembling hand. And shutting off the flame. Goddammit, he couldn't do it. He couldn't just give up like this. He had to see this through to the end. It was a matter of principle now. He _had _to do this.

He leaned back, replacing the lighter in his pocket, and looked around a slight rustle. No. Could it be? He thought he'd seen the edge of a black cape whip out of sight. Leaving the papers where they sat, Crest followed the shadow.

Yes! Rounding the corner into the garbage nook, he saw the unmistakable black silhouette moving towards the garage. _His _garage. Crest neared silently, every muscle tense. Was Batman trying to get into his house? By the dim ambient light, he saw Batman reach up…_and removed his cowl._

Throwing caution to the winds, Crest leapt at the man, flicking on his lighter, letting the fire cast a glow upon the face. And…

"Philip?"

**Thanks for reading. All reviews appersheated, and apologies for the delayed posting. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Smiley faces for people reading this. Frowny face for Mr. YKWYA and his Loyal Daimyo arguments. You are not a very persuasive speaker, sweetheart, but that was a pretty epic kimono, so all is forgiven. Almost all. **

**Anyways, I'm planning on this story having one or two more pre-planned chapters after this, but if anybody has any ideas they'd like to see afterwards, I'd be more than happy to oblige, because I love Louie and Philip, and reporters are fun to write. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Dark Knight or any other affiliates or properties of DC comics or Warner Bros. productions. I have, however, met Lenny Wilkins, and smiles again for anybody who knows who that is.**

"Philip?" To his own ears, Crest's voice sounded strange, high and constricted. Dimly, he remembered that he had been intending to apologize to Philip tonight, promise to leave Bruce Wayne and Batman alone. But all that faded to obscurity next to the man standing before him.

"Louie!" Philip took several paces backwards, so his face was out of the light. "I thought-I mean-why-I thought you were out investigating."

"I was. Investigating the _Batman_."

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "Louie, please don't turn me in. I never meant-"

"This is why you wanted me to stop investigating," Crest muttered, fighting through the haze of shock.

"I know I should have told you and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Louie." Philip moved forward and hugged Crest, who felt the hard plates of the armor dig into his back. He flicked the cover over the lighter and was engulfed in complete blackness.

...

"Isn't that stuff uncomfortable?" he asked as they climbed the stairs to the apartment together, Philip now dressed in civilian clothes. He had stowed the Batman gear in a storage locker in the garage; Batman's entire lair had been two floors beneath Crest's feet the entire time!

Philip laughed weakly. "It's heavy, and _unbearably_ hot in the summer. And I can't turn my head!"

**oOo**

News of the explosion hit the news at 5:00 the next morning. Harvey Dent was critically wounded, and a woman from the D.A.'s office, Rachel Dawes, was dead. Shots of the flaming rubble filled the screen in Crest's and Philip's living room, which Philip stared at as though in a trance.

Crest came to stand behind him and rested his chin on Philip's shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

"About what?" Philip asked, turning.

Crest raised his eyebrows.

"Oh. I don't know. The Joker escaped last night. I guess I'll-" he swallowed. "I guess I'll have to find him. Before he kills anyone else."

Crest nodded. "You're so brave. I couldn't even…" he trailed off, remembering again the cracked glass as Batman-_Philip_-slammed the Joker's head against it. "You really scared the shit out of me last night."

Philip's left eyebrow twitched, like it always did when he was confused. "When?"

"Just…when you were interrogating the Joker. You were pretty…bad-ass."

"Oh, that." Philip gave a high-pitched laugh. "Sorry. Um," he cast another look at the TV, "I should really go."

"Yeah. Go on. Save the world." Crest hugged Philip briefly and laughed.

"What?"

"Don't know what I'm gonna do, now that I don't have a story." Philip laughed and went into the kitchen.

**oOo**

Downstairs in the garage, Philip met with an elderly, white haired man dressed in an immaculate black suit. A black sedan was parked next to his storage locker, and the man helped Philip transfer all the Batman paraphernalia into the trunk.

They worked in complete silence, but after the man had slammed the trunk shut, Philip finally said, "I hate lying to him."

The old man didn't answer immediately. He walked around the car so that he was standing face to face with Philip. "By lying to him," he said in a British accent, "you have saved his life, Mr. Ackerman. And very possibly Batman's as well." He opened the driver's side door and sat down.

"Does Batman have to wear that horrible hood?" Philip asked on a sudden impulse. "I'd think it'd make it hard to fight, not being able to turn your head."

The old man smiled jovially. "No. He got a new one." He drove away.

**oOo**

Alfred may have indulged in a little self-congratulation as he drove back to the penthouse, but whatever celebratory feelings he may have had were effectively strangled when he reached the top floor and saw Bruce still dressed in the Batman suit, minus the mask, sitting listlessly in a chair, staring at the Gotham skyline, expressionless.

He seemed to have been talking prior to Alfred's arrival, because he said as though finishing a sentence, "…and there's still the reporter."

With another little bubbled of pride, Alfred said, "You won't need to worry about him, sir."

"What do you mean?" asked Bruce without looking at him.

"I've taken care of it."

**All reviews appersheated. BTW the second to last Castle episode, "The Blue Butterfly", is TOTALLY FRAKKING AWESOME! To put it simply, Ryan and Esposito are gangsters from the forties. And Ryan has the sexiest Irish accent ever. So you should watch it. **

**Hey, funny joke. Not really, but kinda. What's black and white and black and white and black and white and black and white? A penguin rolling down a hill. **

**What's black and white and laughing? The penguin who pushed him.**

**(:) peas in a pod.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Greetings chickadees! I appersheate all you people who are reading this. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman. I _am _Batman. And I am from Batman, Turkey (pronounced Bot-Min). Incidentally, they tried to sue Warner Brothers about the character named Batman. After Dark Knight came out. **

**Note: In case you forgot, Stacy is Crest's photographer.**

The third floor office was almost completely deserted when Crest returned to the Gotham Times headquarters the next day. Every single desk was empty, and the place was silent. Moving farther in, Crest saw a crowd of people clustered at the end of the room, and hurried to join them.

Standing on his toes, he saw a TV propped up on a desk, showing a man with a garish red smile painted on his face. As he squinted, Crest recognized him as Mike Engel, who'd recently left the Times to work for the city's number one TV network. He was reading a speech off a sheet of paper. The image was shaky, like it was being filmed with a handheld camera, but the audio was turned on full blast, and Crest could hear every word.

"Come nightfall the city is mine, and anyone left here plays by my rules. If you don't want to be in the game, get out now." _Now_, echoed a voice from off screen.

At these words, everyone in the office exchanged terrified looks, and started to disperse uncertainly.

"Man, I'm getting-"

"_Shhh!"_

"-and tunnel crowd are sure in for a surprise. Haha ha haha," the camera flipped around, giving them a brief twisted view of the Joker's face before going black.

Pandemonium erupted. As one body, everyone sprinted for the door, knocking over chairs and desks, uncaring of the computers and framed pictures they sent crashing to the floor. Crest was shunted into a wall, against which he pressed himself, waiting for the stampede to pass. He heard the word "Ferry!" shouted, and realized with a pang of dread that those rickety old things were now synonymous with deliverance.

The office was genuinely empty now, and Crest took a deep breath and started walking towards the door.

"Louis!" called a woman from behind him. Stacy flashed him a cocky grin and held up her camera. "Wanna bet we're the only reporters in town who cover this story?"

Crest gaped at her. "Are you _insane_? We need to get the fuck out of here!"

Stacy folded her arms, letting her camera drop until it was caught by the strap around her neck. "This city's a big place. I know some places the Joker's psycho buddies couldn't find in a million years. And face it. This is the only way we're ever going to get any story better than Mr. Ying's new sushi place, or the vandals down at the Narrows. Louis, this is Pulitzer Prize!" Her face was positively glowing.

Crest felt a smile creep up his face. "Stace, you are batshit crazy."

"That makes two of us."

Crest was about to ask her what she meant when his cell phone rang. "Philip?"

"Louie! I've only got a few minutes. I've been pressed into going across on the first ferry with a load of Maroni's convicts!"

"But, what about-" Crest cast a nervous look at Stacy. "What about your other thing? What about the Joker?"

"I can't get out of it. Just…don't try to get out of the city! The ferries are a nightmare! Stay safe, hole up somewhere out of the way and lie low!"

"I will. You be safe, too. I love you."

He turned to Stacy. "Looks like we're stuck here."

Grin still in place, she said, "Let's do this."

**oOo**

They took Crest's motorcycle, weaving in and out of the bumper to bumper traffic. Stacy's arms squeezed impossibly tight around Crest's waist as he swerved just in time to avoid an outflung door.

"Have you ever driven this thing before?" she shouted in his ear.

"Once last night!" he shouted back.

They stopped at the last stretch of converging road near the ferry docks, where what must have been over 5,000 cars were crammed together. A cacophony of shouts, sirens, and honks assaulted their ears, making anything else impossible to hear.  
>Spotting something over Crest's shoulder, Stacy mounted a park bench, raising her camera. Crest turned and saw a line of men clad in bright florescent orange, Gordon's prisoners. "What are you doing?" he called.<p>

Stacy snapped a picture. "That boat is being filled with four-hundred something of Gotham's worst scumbags, while thirty thousand innocent civilians are trapped on the island with a mass-murdering psychopath," said Stacy. "There's our angle: the city's less than adequate response to mass emergency." She lowered the camera, still looking all around. "Damn. If only we could get close to the Batman. This'll be a hot night for him."

"We don't even know if the Batman is around," said Crest, casting a look at the cluster of police officers in the loading bay near the prisoners.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked Stacy. She hopped down from the bench and started walking toward two policemen standing across the street. "This is the Joker's coup de grace, how could Batman _not _be here? If we know anything about him, we can bet he's already on the Joker's trail."

Stacy turned, moving away from the cops now. "Where are you going?" cried Crest, tagging after her.

"'The bridge and tunnel crowd are sure in for a surprise'," Stacy quoted. "Why would the Joker have said that?" She led him into an unlocked building and towards the staircase. "Why would the Joker have said that? If he's booby-trapped the bridge and the tunnel, why would he warn everyone away?"

"Who knows! He's a psycho. Why did he tell the police he was gonna kill the mayor?"

Stacy took the stairs two at a time up to the fifth floor. She waited for Crest at the top, and he dragged himself the last few stairs, clutching the railing like a lifeline, gasping and sweating.

"He's tricking everyone. Look." She pointed out the window on the landing, to the solid streets of cars and people fighting to board the ferries. "Now every single person in Gotham is in the same place at the same time."

Crest's eyes widened in horror as he realized what she was saying. "Oh my God, we have to call the police!" he pulled out his cell phone, but Stacy knocked it away. It skittered across the floor and into the corner.

"We're not calling anybody. We're getting the best vantage point possible, and the number one story in the country."

"Stacy, you're out of your mind. Those people are going to die!" Crest pointed out the window. "We have to tell someone! This is _insane_."

Stacy shook her head, and pulled a gun from the waist band of her jeans. "This is our chance for the big time, Lou." She cocked the gun and trained it on him. "Get writing. We want every detail to be right." She nodded towards a chair and coffee table situated next to the window.

"Stacy, Philip is on that boat," said Crest desperately. "We have to tell someone! _Please!_ He could die!"

"If you don't start writing, you will."

**oOo**

Darkness was falling when the two ferries, Liberty and Spirit, finally pulled away from the docks, heading for the mainland. The yellow lights from their glittered on the flat black surface of the water. The boats moved steadily away from the shore, which was still teeming with desperate citizens and frantic policemen. Crest watched them, squinting, finding himself searching for Philip's soft brown hair, but failing.

"Hey," snapped Stacy, when she caught him looking up. "Keep writing."

"To whomever finds this note," Crest shot back out of pure spite, "I have been imprisoned by my crazy photographer who is about to let _eight hundred _innocent people _die_ so she can-" the butt of the gun collided painfully with the back of his head.

"Shut up and write," Stacy snarled.

Crest returned to his pad of paper, thinking hard. Philip had taught him the basics of gun handling. But he didn't have the gun. If he just stood up and took it…surely she wouldn't _actually _shoot him. _Surely she wouldn't actually let 800 people die for a story,_ the negative part of his mind said. _But that's different than shooting me. _It was the only way. One hell of a leap of faith.

_1…2…_3!

Crest pushed his chair back and stood up. Stacy tensed, glaring. "Sit. Down," she said through gritted teeth.

"No."

"Goddammit, Crest, I will shoot you."

"Then where's your story, Stace? You can't write worth a damn. You need my words for those pictures."

Stacy looked down and the camera hanging around her neck, and then at the pad of paper still on the table. "What you've already written will be enough."

"A bunch of crazy citizens and two ferries?" Crest scoffed. "That's hardly Pulitzer material. You need the actual disaster, and I'm not going to let that happen."

Stacy caught sight of something out the window. "It's already happening," she said triumphantly.

Crest whirled around. Both ferries had stopped moving, and their lights were flickering. "No."

Before Stacy could do anything, he spun back around, leapt at her, hands reaching for the gun, and tackled her to the ground. A shot fired harmlessly into the wall. Crest rolled, yanking the gun from her grip, and sprinted towards the stairwell without a second glance.

He thundered down the stairs and out into the dark and crowded street, scanning the mass of people.

"Officer!" he shouted, spotting a uniform. "Officer! This is the Joker's plan! He wanted everyone on the ferries. _They're _the booby traps."

The officer clicked off his radio and looked over at the halted ferries. "No shit," he said and walked away. Crest stood where he was, panting. He was too late. He swore very loudly, took a step, and then was almost knocked over by a black figure zooming past him. A black figure with pointy ears and a black cape. Crest stared. Philip was on the ferry. So who the hell was that?

Crest ran, weaving through the stopped cars, back to his motorcycle. Within a minute, his lungs were aching and he had a stitch in his side, but he pressed forward. Finally he reached the bike and spun it around, knowing only the general direction in which Batman was headed.

**oOo**

It was only after a good half hour of searching the Crest realized how entirely fruitless this wild goose chase was. Obviously this bat was an imposter, because Philip was on the boat. There was no point chasing him. It was a minute to midnight. Crest stifled an involuntary yawn. The adrenaline from his encounter with Stacy was beginning to wear off, and he now felt completely exhausted. God, he just wanted to go home. He steered the bike towards the end of the street and turned left, heading back towards 25th avenue and 53rd street.

It seemed the Batman on the motorcycle was not to be the last that night, however, because as Crest pulled into the garage, he saw the same bike race past in the other direction, towards the pile of rubble on the corner of 52nd street. Crest saw him stop and run towards the still-standing skeleton. He stowed his bike and followed.

**All reviews appersheated. I hope you're liking this story, and apologize for any resemblances Stacy bears to Vicky Vale, they were unintentional. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Read the whole chapter, it's different than you think.**

Harvey and Batman both lay unmoving on the ground, forty feet below. Time was behaving very oddly. The moment as Gordon gazed down at them stretched into infinity, and yet he recalled no passage of time descending the skeletal stairs to reach the ground. Now he realized he was truly alone. Batman, his greatest ally, was gone. Only now did the irony hit him that the man he trusted most in the city was one whom Gordon had never seen face to face, had never heard string together more than ten words at once. Batman and Two-Face. Three faces Gordon would never see again.

As though from a great distance, he heard Jimmy yell anxiously, "Is he okay, Dad?"

But Gordon remained silent. All was lost now. Harvey would be mourned and honored. Batman would recede into folk memory, bittersweet and uncertain. No one would remember a face beyond the black, bat-eared mask. What was the harm? Gordon knelt down, and reached towards the man's face. His hand twitched involuntarily. He couldn't just unmask the Caped Crusader, just like that. It wasn't his place, his right. But, he asked himself, who would remember him then? How could the city leave its greatest hero nameless, faceless? Gordon laughed at the absurd idea that in 50 years or 100, Batman's name would be in history textbooks, next to a paragraph about Commissioner Loeb's assassination, and a mug shot of the Joker.

"Oh, what the hell," he whispered. He grasped the mask firmly in his hand. It was rubbery to the touch, but brittle. He pulled.

But there must have been some kind of mistake. Gordon felt a numbness spread through his body as he recognized the face. It couldn't be…_him_. Not Wayne. Fucking Wayne. He was a spoiled billionaire, uncaring about anything save his next giant splurge, or the model du jour. In Gordon's memory, the blank face became animated once more. Wayne sat in the open door of his totaled Lamborghini, suspiciously calm about the destruction of his $300,000 car. He looked up when Gordon said in a determinedly even voice, "It's Mr. Wayne, isn't it?" A curt nod. "That was a very brave thing you just did."

"Trying to catch the light?" Wayne had said, and Gordon had accepted that. Who would suspect Bruce Wayne of a thought process anymore noble than cutting the line and running a red light? He'd assumed the car was protecting the van. He'd assumed the driver was a self-centered douche. And of course that was how Batman had stayed anonymous for so long, playing off the public opinion. Everyone thought about Bruce Wayne, read about his grandiose possessions, his indulgences. He'd romanticized the entire Russian ballet in the Caribbean. At the exact same time that Batman went to Hong Kong to get Lao. How had Gordon not seen it before?

The secret would get out now, he supposed, when Bruce Wayne vanished the same day Batman was found dead. A good light cast too late on the city's resident bastard.

"Dad?" Jimmy yelled again.

Gordon ignored him a second time, because Wayne's jaw clenched, and the his eyes flickered open to see Gordon staring traitorously down at his unconcealed face. Wayne's hand fluttered involuntarily up to his cheek, and Gordon saw momentary fear cloud his eyes. He realized the mask was still clenched in his hand. He held it out apologetically and stood back as Wayne got painstakingly to his feet.

Wayne nodded his thanks, breathing hard, and pulled the mask over his face.

"Batman escaped before I could call in my reinforcements," Gordon said quietly. "Who knows where he went."

Again, Batman nodded. Gordon's mind lit fleetingly on a future image of the fundraiser to which he'd been invited, for some faceless politician. He was sanctioned by Wayne industries, and the party was to be at Mr. Wayne's house. Gordon imagined himself now, shaking hands politely with the host, exchanging vague polite small talk, politely allowing the polite, white haired old butler to take his coat, admiring the ostentatiously expensive décor. Only now, knowing that it was all a façade, that this house, these riches, were the real mask. The man himself in all his splendor stood now before Gordon, bleeding, panting, knowing exactly what Gordon was thinking.

Mr. Wayne was so much easier to resent for all his money, the ease and humor with which he lived his life. He was detached, the least citizenly of Gotham's citizens.

Batman was beloved, or feared. Perhaps he should merely say familiar. When you saw Batman leaping over a rooftop, you felt that undeniable fleeting surge of hope, praying the he could make the city a better place as he struggled against mobsters and business men alike. As Batman fought Bruce Wayne. And Gordon knew that the man who was standing was much more a two face than the man who lay at his feet. Four faces. The four faces of Gotham.

Batman rolled his neck and started walking away, leaving Gordon with Harvey's body.

"I knew it!" came a whisper from the shadows. A thin, middle-sized man in his mid-thirties emerged, staring at Batman's retreating back. "I _knew _it!"

**This is the pre-planned end. However, if there are any other Crest-involving adventures you would like to see, I would love to hear them. I may also continue with him after The Dark Knight Rises comes out. (For which I am unimaginably excited). Thank you for all your support, have a nice day. Or night. Or afternoon. Evening, morning, dinner, life. You choose. **


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